


Not To Blame

by summerartist



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Chronic Illness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sickfic, Victorian era, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21559093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerartist/pseuds/summerartist
Summary: When Aziraphale is worse for wear, Crowley helps him find the truth about reality. Or, an ill Aziraphale hears something he really needed to hear.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	Not To Blame

**Author's Note:**

> You know that feeling you get when something absolutely needs to be written? This fic really insisted on it.

Aziraphale had managed to rent a spacious flat not far from his bookshop, courtesy of his miracled wages. Crowley lingered outside of it, still pondering if he should go see Aziraphale or wait to summon him to St. James’s Park. The appearance of several angels necessitated him to delay his decision and to find cover. He dodged behind some empty crates, still close to Aziraphale’s window. The angels entered the flat without knocking, marching straight to the ground floor where Aziraphale’s parlor should have been. There were hushed voices for a while.

“Let us pray,” Gabriel’s stoic voice rang out.

Hunkered down, Crowley overheard the angels begin to chatter and speak their prayers softly. It sounded like Uriel and Michael were in the small group. Crowley strained to hear Aziraphale since he knew that he would be praying with them.

Their voices chimed unanimously at the conclusion of the prayer and they slowly began to leave. Crowley hung back. There were a few quiet whispers and Crowley froze when he heard a signature sound. A blessing had been bestowed.

After they had all ambled out, Crowley waited a few more minutes before he slunk in. He squeezed nimbly through the cracked window and past the fluttering curtains to some kind of sitting room that was just adjacent to Aziraphale. He ended up jostling the windowframe and the window slid shut with a snap.

“Bless it!”

There was no answering response to his commotion, no curious angel scoping out what he was up to. Frowning, Crowley slipped into the room.

“Aziraphale,” he uttered the name breathlessly.

The hard-backed sofa had one occupant. Aziraphale was swaddled up in white linen, ashen features twisted in discomfort. His nightshirt was open at the neck and a fine sheen of sweat stood out upon his skin.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley knelt down beside him, waiting until the angel turned to look at him. Gradually, glassy eyes trailed over the room and listed vaguely in his direction.

“Crowley?” The angel’s voice was raspy while being quiet from disuse.

Instinctively, Crowley reached up and stroked back the angel’s sweaty curls. “What happened?”

A strange unreadable expression flitted across Aziraphale’s features for a moment. He closed his eyes briefly, as if needing to wait for the strength to open them again.

“Mmm...punishment.”

“Punishment?” Crowley repeated hollowly.

“Yes, no doubt from the almighty. Can’t blame her for my...gluttony...sloth,” Aziraphale murmured.

“What?” Crowley’s features scrunched up. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

Despite the demon’s harsh tone, he kept smoothing a steady hand across the wan features.

“Did Gabriel tell you this?” Crowley growled with sudden suspicion.

“No,” Aziraphale murmured.

Silence fell between the two. Crowley knew that he would have to work at whatever planted that falsehood in the angel’s mind, but for now he just had to figure out how to heal him. The obvious symptoms he could see were the fever and what looked like loss of appetite, if the diminished corporeal form was any indication. There was a lot going around and it could be anything.

The adulterated food, the bacteria-infested environment, and the toxins found in common household cleaning products were just some of the possible causes. Their corporations did not fall prey to common ailments, but sometimes there were circumstances in which their celestial being could not fight off something serious.

This room….Crowley hissed, more snake-like than he had been in a century. This room was lined in acid-green wallpaper. Crowley knew that color, knew how it was made.

“Arsenic,” he snarled.

While likely not being the cause of Aziraphale’s illness, it was still a major contributing factor. He would have to check the angel for nerve damage later. Crowley’s hissing and spitting had not roused Aziraphale, and the lack of response caused the demon to gradually settle down into quiet worry.

“How about a little trip to the seaside? That’s what gentlefolk do nowadays, isn’t it? Some sea air for our health,” Crowley proposed.

Aziraphale blinked at him.

Crowley switched positions in order to hold Aziraphale’s hand. “Angel, where’s your caretaker?”

If the other angels had not provided one then there must have been a human that had taken up the task. Aziraphale shook his head.

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Your nurse? You must have a nurse.”

Aziraphale barely had the energy to speak, much less move. Surely he had someone here. Angel or no, he needed to rise occasionally or risk developing bedsores and atrophied muscles. It was a surefire way to discorporate a vessel slowly and painfully.

"You mean you have no one.”

Aziraphale nodded and clasped Crowley’s fingers tighter. Aziraphale’s thumb twitched and he rubbed clumsily at the demon’s hand.

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice softened despite his earlier venom. “Would you mind if I looked after you?”

Aziraphale did not appear to understand him at first until the tiniest of smiles curled at the corners of his mouth.

* * *

They were both sitting on the cool sand, listening to the waves. Aziraphale seemed to take particular delight in watching the shore birds scuttle around and hunt for food.

“It’s not your fault that you’re sick,” Crowley told him without preamble.

Aziraphale did not reply to Crowley’s statement, either because he was too tired or he knew that Crowley would disagree with what he had to say. Aziraphale sluggishly turned towards him as he talked. The angel was acting a little more energetic, but walking was still difficult for him, as was dressing himself and bathing. It would take a while to recover from the poisonous environment.

“I mean it. God doesn’t punish people like that anymore, and even if she did, you wouldn’t deserve it,” Crowley said firmly.

The angel cast the demon a look that somehow managed to say a lot.

“I’m serious. Come on, work with me here.”

The angel kept a stubborn tilt to his jaw, huffing quietly. “The arrangement.”

Crowley drew himself up in displeasure, but something about Aziraphale’s appearance made him deflate. The angel still sported impressive shadows under his eyes and a pallid face. His hands were weak, shaky, and cold.

“Say what you like, what we were doing was hardly a sin. Our delegation of duties evened out most of the time and the humans certainly didn’t mind,” Crowley recalled.

Aziraphale slowly inclined his head, nearly listing sideways with the movement. Crowley reached an arm out to him. Aziraphale shivered.

“Come on, let’s go back inside. It’s getting cold out here,” Crowley remarked.

Aziraphale made a reluctant noise.

“Well, I’m not going back without you,” Crowley grumbled. “At least drink this.”

Crowley summoned up a cup of Azirphale’s favorite kind of cocoa and handed it to him. Aziraphale seemed to take it with the greatest reluctance until he realized that the cup was warm. He cradled it in his palms ponderously.

“I really do mean it though, about you not deserving this. Sometimes shit things happen, angel, whether you pray or not,” Crowley concluded.

* * *

Aziraphale studied the demon from overtop his cup of cocoa. He supposed that the demon did have a point. It was just difficult to accept that it was somehow not his fault, that he had not actually incurred her wrath or displeasure somehow.

The steady warmth from Crowley’s arm lulled him slightly. Perhaps there were parts of life that were bound to occur no matter their actions, because things were simply that way. He glanced up at Crowley. The demon was in his shirtsleeves without the trappings of aristocracy adorning him. Here he was casual, almost relaxed while they were by themselves.

Aziraphale was trained to look for signs of God in all of her mysterious forms. Maybe the sign he had been searching for had their arm slung around him to help keep him upright. Aziraphale leaned slightly into the touch. Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“Perhaps you are right, my dear,” Aziraphale conceded at last.

After all, if Aziraphale had to endure a punishment, it was not going to be something like this.

The End.


End file.
